Verrückt
by Jasque
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a king who sat on a golden throne. In spite of his wrath, he was a well-respected king for his rectitude far exceeded his temper. His name, Rumpelstiltskin, was as silly as his pink castle. He had all the wealth the world could offer and more. Despite his fortune, the king was a very lonely man—broken in body and soul.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Beta'ed by the lovely nibblesfan.

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><p>Once upon a time, there was a king who sat on a golden throne. In spite of his wrath, he was a well-respected king for his rectitude far exceeded his temper. His name, Rumpelstiltskin, was as silly as his pink castle. He had all the wealth the world could offer and more. Despite his fortune, the king was a very lonely man—broken in body and soul. His queen had eloped with a passing sailor and his heir, the only light in his life, succumbed to sickness. With his child's passing, the king gave in to his grief.<p>

In his dark and dreary room, Rumpelstiltskin spent his days and nights in isolation. On the ninth day of his seclusion, a spiteful fairy called Mathilda visited the king, whispering promises of alleviating his pain. Desperate for release from his agony the king believed the fairy's words, in exchange, he gave her his soul.

Without his soul, the once just king became ruthless. Harsh punishments awaited transgressors regardless of the offence severity and taxes weighed heavily on his subjects. Regardless of the many protestations, the people's voice fell on deaf ears.

Unknowing to the king, every cruel deed twisted his soul, which became the fairy's sustenance as long as he lived. The corrupted soul gave Mathilda her powers and longevity, successively altering Rumpelstiltskin's appearance. His smooth, pink skin turned into rough, green scales littered with specks of gold. Brown eyes became golden-green and there were fangs in place of teeth. The king gave no thoughts to these changes. You could even say he relished in them as they struck fear in others.

Under the king's iron fist rule, unrest grew, instigating plots to overthrow him. The rebels however, were no match for the combined cunningness of the fairy and their king. The pair was quick in squelching the rebellion and driving rebels out of their den. Torture and execution awaited these fugitives including those who aided them. Fearing another uprising that threatened her life source, the fairy kept an ever-watchful eye on the kingdom through her hand mirror. It would glow green at the slightest sign of a threat.

Living in fear of him, his people became submissive, abandoning their revolt and hope. As the insurgents declined, the kingdom started to stabilise. Assured of their obedience, Rumpelstiltskin began the next phase of his rule—expanding his kingdom. Gradually, the fairy became lax in her vigilance. This was why she kept her mirror hidden in her trunk of treasures. This why she did not know an auburn-haired beauty would break her dominion.

x

Rumpelstiltskin's strict and unconventional rule, earned him the title 'The Mad King'. Despite this moniker and the questionable state of his mind, the kingdom prospered and became a trading hub for textiles and slavery.

The eccentric king clothed himself in rich robes and paraded his wealth to neighbouring kingdoms. Envious of his blossoming economy, monarchies scampered to be his allies. Rumpelstiltskin, however, only made deals with desperate territories. Hefty rewards were promised should their deal come through. Blinded by greed, not many saw through the Mad King's designs. Even fewer saw his gratification at orchestrating events leading to the non-fulfilment of a contract. As a consequence, kingdoms and trade routes fell onto his lap.

As Rumpelstiltskin's influence expanded, his domain served as an entrepôt for much of the commerce between two major ports. Tradesmen brought languages and cultures, leaving locals little choice but to learn them in order to survive in the dog-eat-dog world. Opportunists would leave trails of scavengers just for a chance to climb the business ladder.

Among these colourful people was a company of touring performers. They brought with them theatrical acts that narrates the story of a puppet king. An auburn-haired storyteller travelled with them. Her name was Belle, aptly named for one as beautiful as the northern lights and as kind as summer. You could always find her sitting under an old oak tree, spinning tales of heroics and adventures to her eager little listeners.

Words of the performers' acts reached the king and roused his curiosity. It was the day after hearing the news that Rumpelstiltskin decided to investigate if the act was as impressive as claimed. He sat among the common people under the guise of a pauper in the enclosed space, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the odour in the cramped space. Cheers exploded from the audience when the ringmaster and his company burst forth from behind the stage curtains. After introducing themselves, drum rolls shook the air and the tent was basked in darkness, indicating the start of the show.

The performance was full of grandeur as claimed and Rumpelstiltskin found himself enjoying the story of the puppet king. But that was not to say he was ignorant; he knew it was a depiction of him. He wasn't deaf and was definitely not stupid. He knew of the whispers on the streets. Many believed Mathilda had him wrapped around her fingers, making him do her bidding. Words were he accumulated power and wealth to win her heart. What a foolish notion. He would rather lose part of his power than bed the harpy. When the show ended, the king thought such blatant disrespect toward a sovereign needed a punishment of equal measure. Fools who thought he was blinded by their disguises deserved a fool's death.

x

Three days later the king decreed the ringmaster and his performing entourage to be stringed and dressed like puppets in his court—they were to act out a battle scene with real arms. The stringed company buckled to their knees, begging for mercy. Ignoring their cries, the king commanded them to pick their weapon of choice.

The performers were forcibly dragged to the front of the court by the ropes tied to their limbs. Blood would paint the castle's floor had the storyteller not prostrated herself in front of the king and begged for forgiveness.

"I beg your leniency, Your Majesty. I offer you my ability to bring stories and creatures to life if you were to spare my people," implored the storyteller. The king's attention perked up at her confession. "I can create dragons, ogres and more. Release them and I am yours to command."

Rumpelstiltskin sat upright on his throne and steepled his fingers; his face was the mask of indifference. He had heard of people with such gifts, Echidna they were called, but thought they were none left in existence. In his folly, he sent ships to the farthest corners of the world in search for them, but all returned empty handed. The woman before him, however, claimed otherwise. The king cocked his head and pondered his options. Heavy silence reigned over the court and time seemed to stand still.

Helplessness and fear cloaked the storyteller as she heard the king's approach. The slow and deliberate clacking of his heels on the marble floor sent shudders down her spine. She could feel the pinprick feeling of his eyes roaming over her prostrated form as he circled her. The stillness was deafening and she prayed the king would believe her words.

The king circled her a few times more before stopping somewhere to her right. The sound of scampering feet followed his order to bring him a collar. He then called for her to rise when presented with it.

"There, you are my slave now," the king said loudly after securing the collar around her neck. Enslavement, such was the price for the power of creation. "Prove to me that you are not lying. Conjure me a creature as black as the night. One that can perform the foulest of spells and destroys kingdoms and dragons," he said with a dramatic flair of his hands.

Leaning in further than necessary, the king whispered in her ear, "Storyteller, I command you to bring forth the legendary Dark One or your precious lambs pay the price."

Bound to the king, the storyteller did as commanded.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Beta'ed by the lovely nibblesfan.

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><p>The stories told of a creature stealing children in the night. Word was it was darkness personified. It played a tune on its flute every full moon, enchanting young ones from their beds. There were accounts of men who heard the lively song and saw children sleepwalking to its rhythm. Some even claimed they saw the creature with its flute. Whether or not they were true, the tales have the same ending: the children were never found.<p>

Desperate parents did everything to find their missing broods, but it was all in vain. Rumours spread among the villagers of a woman who could locate the lost children. In return for her service, the woman asked for gold, a payment that was too steep and beyond the parents' means, so the children remained missing.

x

Red Village was so-called due to its red soil. It gave the village a picturesque look during dusk and dawn. When news of missing children befell their poor neighbouring village, terrified Red villagers tied their young to their beds. Parents kept watch over their precious sons and daughters every nightfall.

On the fourth night, deprived of sleep, the parents snored softly next to their children as a tune carried through the air.

The next morning the village was in an uproar. Half of the children were gone. Worried parents banded together and spread news of their willingness to pay in gold to whoever found the children. Like in the stories, a mysterious woman appeared in the village and offered assistance, for a price. Claiming herself a demon catcher and a powerful sorceress, she told them she could retrieve the missing children. Desperate, the villagers made a deal with her. In return for her service, they were to give her five bags of gold.

The following night a familiar tune once again enveloped the village. The demon catcher used magic to transform herself into a little girl. She took with her a glass vial before following the enchanted children. The villagers only saw her two days later, sniffling children trotted quietly behind her.

There was much joy from the parents as they embraced their offspring. They thanked the woman and gave her the bags of gold. Seeing two bags instead of the promised five, the woman lashed out and demanded them to meet their end of the deal. When they refused, she transformed her vial into a flute before shape shifting into a dark creature. Fear and surprised mingled in the air as the children hid behind their parents, screaming that the dark creature was the one holding them captive. The creature unleashed destruction on the village, sending men, women, and children scampering for safety. Those who were weak and slow were devoured by her magic before they turned into ashes.

Few survived.

In the centuries that followed, travellers told tales of missing children and of charred villages and kingdoms. Some never knew the exact cause but they all share a pivotal character: a female dealmaker. And Rumpelstiltskin wanted power over this immortal being the stories called the Dark One. The storyteller had just given him his wish.

x

_The world is governed by rules..._

_Everything needs to be balanced..._

_Everything has its limits..._

_Nothing comes freely..._

_If they do, then the price might already have been paid..._

Those were the words from the Dark One before Rumpelstiltskin gave her his first order. The Dark One, who turned out to be a dark and beautiful woman told him that her magic was no exception. It cannot break three rules: bring back the dead, force someone to fall in love, and change the past. And like the laws of the world, her magic comes with a price. She knew not in what form except that it would be collected when the time was right. Learning this, the king was cautious in his commands and his plans came to fruition slower than he envisioned. Better safe than sorry as they said. Over time, seeing no consequences from his requests, the king became emboldened and forgot about the price of magic.

What would take years to accomplish, the Dark One was able to realise it in months. The creature was everything he had hoped and his to command. The king controlled the Dark One through a dagger that was created along with her. It gave him authority over her and she was bound to fulfil his requests as long as he wielded it.

Crazed in exercising the immense power, Rumpelstiltskin further commanded the creature to expand his kingdom. Nothing could placate his hunger. He wanted to be feared and known across the land and leave imprints of his triumph. As a result, kingdoms were destroyed and enemies smote down.

Mathilda, who was oblivious to these changes, was occupied in another realm. Reinvigorated by the king's soul, she traversed the world looking for more souls to consume. Failing to find anyone as desperate as Rumpelstiltskin, she dourly returned home.

At the first pinprick of a powerful dark magic, her body grew cold. Her magic prickled her skin, protecting her from the unknown power. With dread, she scrambled in search of her mirror, furious with herself at her negligence. Mirror in hand, her heart dropped at the image of an auburn-haired woman. She had heard the king had bought a stunning slave before she left, but never gave thought to it thinking it was a harmless purchase. Obviously, she was wrong.

The fairy gathered what little information she could in the tight-lipped society of Rumpelstiltskin's kingdom. The king finally became what he had set out to do, be feared and powerful. Sorting through the wild stories was a chore, but there were two consistent facts in the sea of rumours: the king purchased a slave and he created the Dark One. Mathilda wondered if they were one and the same.

It was in the middle of the king's conquest when the fairy confronted Rumpelstiltskin on his new acquisition. She wanted to know how he attained the Dark One, a creature that exists only in children's tales. Her interrogations came with a warning that it would be his undoing. The king however, was quite aggravated when questioned. He evaded her queries and sneered at every attempt made. That was until she shoved her glowing mirror at him. She was beside herself when he waved lazily at the image in her mirror.

"Aww, does the wee fairy fear a hapless maid?" he said in a singsong voice, clapping his hands like an exuberant child. The fairy could feel the last thread of her patience slipping when he wiped away invisible tears. "You're worrying over nothing, Mathilda. She's not the Dark One and most assuredly not a threat to either of us."

"You know this woman, then? Who is she?"

"Questions, questions, questions... so many questions from such a tiny person," he twittered, only to stop his evasions when the fairy made it clear her curiosity could not be mollified. "She's my slave, I doubt that qualifies as a threat. I think your mirror's broken."

"You know that's not possible. The mirror **never** lies."

"There's a first for everything, dearie," Rumpelstiltskin said in derision. "It's obvious your mirror has lost its magic."

"No it does not," the fairy growled, causing the king to raise an eyebrow. "Even if she's not the Dark One she must be of a greater threat for the mirror to show her instead. Everyone lives beneath a mask, Rumpelstiltskin. You should know that better than most. This woman could be a cutthroat for all you know. Do you want to see all you built crumble? Have you forgotten what happened the last time you brought a stranger to your castle? He ran off with your wife—"

The king was quite agile for a scrawny man. In an instant, he had a hand around her throat, making her heart beat wildly like a humming bird's. "I tire of your ramblings, Mathilda. When I say she is of no concern, I meant it. She is bound to me and only I can free her. The storyteller is not a threat to either of us," he said. "Leave me before you regret it!"

Mathilda stumbled when the king shoved her. If looks could kill, Rumpelstiltskin's glare could have ended her then and there. Infuriated over his treatment, she let her temper loose, her tongue followed soon after. She let it slip that she'll destroy the storyteller. Furious, the Dark One was summoned. Seeing the legendary creature appear in the flesh momentarily stunned her. At the king's command, Mathilda felt the Dark One's magic flowed through her, forbidding her entry to his kingdom. With her hands bound, she decided to bid her time until an opportunity to strike rose.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Beta'ed by the lovely nibblesfan.

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><p>As Rumpelstiltskin's power spread, tributes were sent by terrorised kingdoms to secure their safety and swear fealty. The king preened at his success. The storyteller on the other hand, passed her days in her windowless room, unseeing to the outside world. She was kept locked in her chamber by magic where only the king could access. Today was no better than yesterday, full of gloom and doom. The king's grand design was nearly coming to completion and more obstacles were falling at his feet. Such was the king's delight that he invited her to watch the devastation.<p>

Up at the castle's turret the king watched in glee at the scene unfolding before him. His eyes moved wildly about the land as if he was moving chess pieces in his head. At the edge of the horizon, smoke rose into the greying sky. Belle, who observed everything with a wilting heart, could not hear the screams but knew they were there. When the king proudly puffed out his chest and boasted of his brilliance, she dared a glance at his face. What she saw frightened her. She had always feared the king but never a deep-rooted terror as she had today. Shadowy wisps of smoke curled around him and his eyes were ablaze with malice; this was the monster everyone feared.

Excusing herself, she headed straight for her room, hoping its familiarity would calm her. For once she was grateful there were no windows. It blinded her, however temporarily, to what was happening outside its walls. Sitting on a settee, she let the tears fall. Her body shook as the waves of reality bore down upon her at the realisation of what she had given the king. She expected this, didn't she? But the magnitude of the ruin was beyond her imagination. Overwhelmed with anxiety, she let darkness claim her.

It was midnight when Belle awoke. The lighted hearth gave her room a golden glow. She let herself believe she was back in her tent, the bonfire cackling in the distance. Sound of merriment would hum in her ears and she would join in the festive and dance in the cold night air. There was no black smoke, no ominous figures, or giggling mad king. She would be with her family. They would eat and toast to a life without boundaries and they would... they would...

Sighing, Belle gathered her dress around her as the chilly air seeped into her bones. It became harder and harder to recall her nomadic life as the months went by. She had no activities to occupy her time, only the stories in her head. Eventually she ran out of things to imagine; the stifling darkness in the castle threatened to drown her in its bosom and steal away the smallest form of happiness. Oh how she would sacrifice an arm for a reading material. Blankly she looked around her extravagant room. She would have admired its beauty had it not been her prison. 'Another room, another prison,' she thought.

Her last master was cruel. Scourges and flaying were part of a monthly routine. Cleansing, he called it. Said it was to wash away the grime of her magic, magic that he wasn't hesitant to use. She was glad he was not creative enough to ask for monsters, a monster like what she had created for the king.

Lying on her back, Belle stared at the ceiling. Others called her magic a gift; to her it was a curse. Fear was a constant in her life—that was before she found her adopted family. She was once asked why she did not take matters into their own hands. That would have been the easiest and obvious choice. Indeed it would, but it was also a cowardice choice. Life was too precious to be thrown away. She should know. Her mother had given up her life for her safety. Committing such act would be to sully her mother's sacrifice. No, she would never go down that path. She would use her wits as she had all those years ago. She escaped her first master; she could do the same with Rumpelstiltskin.

Pushing aside her dark thoughts, she gathered her tattered courage and rose from the settee. But she rose too fast. Coupled with her tiredness and clumsiness, she tripped over her dress. She would have broken something had someone not prevented the fall.

"Careful now, dearie, can't have you knock yourself to death," giggled a voice.

Belle whirled to face the king, wondering when he had entered her room. Realising he was still holding her upper arms and standing too close behind her, she cringed at the contact. He quickly let go, sneering at the look of revulsion on her face.

The sneer was still present on him as he looked her over, most probably to see whether she had hurt herself. Not that she could since he forbade her from inflicting self-harm. She could no more ignore his command than the Dark One could ignore the master of her dagger.

"You said you were ill," he said casually, as if he was commenting on the dull weather. 'Ill' was quite an understatement. She was more than ill. Repulsed; terrorised; miserable would aptly describe her state. Belle snorted loudly, causing the king to raise an eyebrow and looked at her in disguised perplexity. "I take it whatever caused the ailment has passed?" His knitted eyebrows and worried eyes drew out her ire. '_How dare he pretends to not know what triggered it?_' she thought vehemently.

Months of aloneness and regrets had finally shattered what little patience and sanity she had left. And the reason why she snapped at the king.

"You know what caused it, Your Majesty." She curtsied mockingly and watched the concern melted off his face.

The king's apparent need for supremacy left her with a grimy feeling. Belle wondered if she' be able to wash the red stains off her hands. After all, she was partly responsible for the chaos wrecking the land.

"Was it everything you hoped?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before she realised it.

The king was taken aback by her question, lost and confused to what she was referring to. The cloud of confusion dissipated when the meaning sinks in. Pursing his lips, he fixed her with a glare.

"Of course it was. Why would it not?" he said in a clipped tone. "King George is finally squashed like the filthy bug he is and Midas promised me half of his gold. These delight me, dearie." His fingers danced in the air.

Belle liked to think she had learned and knew enough about man to see past their masks. And Rumpelstiltskin was no exception, he had one too many. Amid the showmanship that he clad himself in and the walls he built, there was no denying his last sentence was a question.

"Do they? I foresee that we'll pay a hefty price at the end." Belle watched him with half-concealed disgust, mindlessly tracing the faint line of a scar on her finger. Her thoughts took her to the day that she escaped her first master... the escape that resulted in his death. She told herself it was no fault of hers; it was his price for using her magic. Magic always comes with a price as the old saying went.

"What makes you think that?" He forced out a laugh. Belle wondered if he finally remembered the Dark One's warning about magic.

"Because every action has a reaction. Every up has its down." She raised her chin and held his gaze. "Your reign won't last forever, Rumpelstiltskin. Nothing does."

Belle straightened her spine when the king leaned in a hairbreadth away. His eyes threatened to turn into slits and his rotting teeth caused bile to rise up her throat. She mentally congratulated herself for not trembling visibly like a shaken tree. "I'll excuse you for not using my proper title, storyteller," he hissed before spinning on his heels and giggling madly. Belle let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I'll last forever and so will my reign. You'd do well to fear me."

A scoff was Belle's only answer.

The king turned to look at her, surprise evident on his face. "I could turn you into a toad, you know. You wouldn't want that." At her lack of fear he added, "No? An annoying critter, then? Oh yes, that would suit you just fine."

"Oh I don't mind being turned into a cockroach. I can leave faecal matter on your food and breed an army to swarm your castle," Belle quipped. Rumpelstiltskin creased his forehead and his fingers fluttered nervously. Baffled by her response, the king did what all men did; he spluttered an inane comment, choosing to ignore the oddity that is the storyteller.

Belle felt triumphant. The menacing king was just a man after all.

Wanting their exchange to be over and done with, Rumpelstiltskin made a beeline for the door. Before he could exit, the storyteller called out his name. He turned and saw her fidgeting. Such contrast to the sharp woman a few minutes ago. He wondered what happened in the scant seconds that changed her demeanour. Soon he was trying to puzzle together this peculiar woman. She had been nothing but an obedient presence, a meek dormouse if you will, and then she surprised him by growing a backbone.

"If I were to live here for the rest of my life, could I at least have something to pass the time?"

Oh. He hadn't expected that. Then again, what did he anticipate? An apology? A proper conversation that he never knew he wanted? Such silly thoughts.

"Well, what do you want? Embroidery lessons? Dancing lessons? Pets?"

"Books... just books."

Confounded was probably the right word to describe Rumpelstiltskin's expression. There were not many women who sought enjoyment in reading and he found himself intrigued by her. This woman of no more than twenty-five and small in stature found pleasure in the written words. Her brilliant azure eyes still held that same sad tinge when he first enslaved her, but this time he could see a hint of steel in them. For a moment—like a flame doused in water—a twinge of compassion bloomed in his chest for her, a woman who was so unlike the ones that crossed his path. Shaking himself at the sudden feeling, he left with a curt nod and the promise of books.


	4. Chapter 4

The king didn't request her presence on the climax of his conquest. That was the first and only time. His plans fell in place and his dreams were finally realised after three long years. Everything was as he wished and peace finally descended upon the conquered lands. However, the same could not be said for the blood-curling screams erupting from the throne room. It happened often enough that everyone measured the king's displeasure by the length of the scream. On those days, the castle inhabitants would make themselves scarce. No one wanted to face the irate king.

Another visible change came about in the castle, more specifically in the king, but no one dared to comment on it. When none of the council members could see the weakness in their policy, a servant did not steep his tea long enough, or the clean-up at his new territories were taking too long, the king would rant about them to the storyteller before blustering about the castle like a petulant child.

Belle didn't know why, but the king found a hobby in riling her up. It didn't escape her notice it started not long after her demand for reading materials. The first few times it happened, she wondered if he was so lonely to willingly subject himself to her idle chatter. Surely his ministers could provide more stimulating conversations? But as the weeks passed, she stopped questioning his motive. He was, after all, the only one who would and could talk to her. Deprived of human interactions, the storyteller latched on the king's company despite their differences.

Accustoming herself to his morbid humour took a while. When she learned to appreciate it, she found she rather liked his taciturn nature as long as she was not the recipient. As their familiarity with each other grew, she liked to think they had formed a friendship of sorts. Gradually, she peeled away the layers wrapped around the king as she oft did with others. She decided she quite liked the man she found beneath those masks.

One had to be a fool to not notice the shift around the castle. After years of shrouded in darkness, lightness was tangible in the castle's air. Whispers spread through the kingdom about this transformation and none expected this one particular change on a fine Sunday morning, not even the storyteller.

In the early morning, just as the sun was rising and scattering light over the land, Belle found herself staring out a high window.

A window where soft, warm rays of sunlight kissed her face in varying colours and patterns.

Gently, she traced its patterns, as if fearing it would shatter. She was startled out of her trance when a maid tapped on her shoulders. The woman told her the king requested her presence.

Belle could only look at the frumpy woman like a lost child. 'How did she get in?' she thought to herself.

"You're required to dine with the king, so be quick about it. Else he'll have my head on a spike." The confusion must be evident on her face for the woman huffed out, "Stop gaping like a goldfish. It is just a window and me, nothing to stare in wonder at."

"But—but why?"

"How would I know what goes in the king's head! Maybe he has taken a liking to you or maybe he has finally got it into his head that keeping you cooped up in here with only him as a companion is not doing any good for that pretty head of yours. Mind you, I've been in the same situation, and living alone with no companionship is enough to drive me mad within a week. Don't know how you managed it this long."

The old maid continued her babbling; she was impatient and most probably exhausted judging from the dark circles under her eyes. She ushered Belle to her bathing tub and the storyteller smiled when no candles were needed to light up the room. Not when the room was bathed in sunlight from four high windows.

As the day progressed, no one but Fate knew that the coming nightfall would mark the beginning of the permanent intertwining of the storyteller's fate and the king's.

The storyteller was reading by the hearth when the door slammed open to reveal the man who had consumed her thoughts throughout the day. He walked in wordlessly and sagged into a nearby chair—a bottle threatening to fall from his loose grip. As the unpleasant smell of liquor assaulted her senses, the king's bleary eyes looked into nothingness; his occasional hiccup broke the dark quietness.

Belle had one too many unpleasant experiences with drunken men. The sight of someone she considered a friend, even a reluctant one at that, in such state vexed her. She was about to call the guards when the beaten man, for that was what he looked to her, snickered and broke into a monologue. Or perhaps he was talking to invisible beings that she could not see. He spoke of his harsh upbringing, his cowardly father, and his child. No kind words were spared for his wife. No amount of soothing could ease his bleeding heart. And so Belle let him rage until he finally lost himself to sleep.

Covering him in her blanket, her hand tentatively crept up to push away a stray lock of hair. The man whimpered his son's name. Belle couldn't help the sympathy formed in her breast. Finally, the last layer was peeled and she couldn't unseen what was in front of her.

At the crack of dawn, a blanket was neatly folded on the chair, now empty of its night occupant. A cursive thank you note lay on it.

x

Being summoned was never a pleasant experience. A piercing pain would shoot through her whenever the king called. It grew in intensity when she ignored it like she did now. She could hear the king's voice reverberated through her being. Unable to withstand the torture she presented herself to him. "What took you long to appear before me, Hira?" the king asked, eyes hard as steel. She recounted her doings to the king and he nodded in satisfaction. With the enslaved ogres, they had safeguarded their western trade routes that were prone to banditry. The kingdom may have stabilised and the king feared, but there would always be one person who would defy the law.

Hira was about to magic'ed herself back to her station at the king's dismissal when she noticed a single red rose on the king's table. Bile rose in her throat. Over the passing months, she had noticed the king's growing infatuation. The changes started gradually; first, with the king's temperament. He was no longer volatile—easily ignoring his advisors and servants' blunders. He even chose to spend more of his days with the storyteller. Although he donned his masks, Hira wasn't blind to how he slobbered over the woman like a pup begging for attention. At any given time the king would free the storyteller and her life would be forfeit. As long the king had her enthralled, she remained bound to him, but everything has a loophole. Thus, she began plotting her survival; besides, the castle was full of desperate souls to ensnare.

It wasn't long till she found her pawn.

x

Caleb was a young man who found happiness at the bottom of his pint. So strong was his love for it that there was not a day where he didn't have less than five of them. Getting thrown out of taverns and beaten up for his debts became a weekly ritual. His work in the castle's kitchens suffered and he was nearly terminated when the reeve caught him stealing bottles of wine. Lucky for him, his sister was the reeve's wife. If not for her pleading, he would be crawling on the streets instead of nursing his empty stomach as he was now.

Someone grumbled an insult behind his back. Turning his bleary eyes on the person, he threw an insult at him. Slurs were traded, until finally, temper rose and they got into a brawl. In his inebriated state, Caleb ended up with a bloodied nose and broken teeth. Hefting himself up and screaming curses at his assailant he left the castle grounds and took the road leading to town. No one noticed the ominous figure that hid behind the shelves. No one saw the wicked smile before she magic'ed herself away.

x

The pouring rain caused Caleb to take refuge in an abandoned hut. His need for mead was temporarily put on hold as he waited out the rain. Busy keeping himself warm, he didn't notice an old woman approaching the hut. The dull thud of her staff on the murky ground alerted him to her presence. The startled man turned to look at the comer. She nodded her head in greeting and flashed a crooked smile before taking a seat on a rickety chair. A long stretch of silence hummed in the air as the pair stared out the broken windows.

"Wretched weather today ain't it?" the woman broke the silence.

"Like every other day," grumbled the young man.

"I'm headin' to town, but the rain destroyed my wares. What about you, young man, yer headin' somewhere?"

Caleb answered rudely and hoped it was enough to stop any lines of questioning. It didn't. The woman prattled on about her life and the people she had met. Occasionally she'd ask him if had done the things she had, to which he answered monotonously. Their conversation, if it could be classified as such, was stilted. That was until they got to the topic of the king.

The elder of the two cackled as the young one listened with rapt attention. She wove him tales of a dagger that controlled the Dark One; stories of the riches and power to be gained if one controlled it.

"If only he would part with it," Caleb said wistfully.

"Oh he does," the woman smirked. "He has to eat; sleep; bathe at one point. There must be a time where he takes it off. Just imagine the sheer power you'll wield!" she chuckled, baring her rotting teeth.

The young man asked how the woman knows this but she never answered his question. Instead, she took out bottles of mead from her basket, one that Caleb sworn wasn't there before, and handed it to him. Looking at the offering like a man dying of thirst, he downed it like water. The woman could see the pieces of puzzle moving in the man's head; a light of hope and greed burned in his eyes.

When morning came, she was gone.

Blaming it on the mead, the young man headed to the castle. A nagging voice at the back of his head however, could not stop seducing him with a future of power and wealth.


	5. Chapter 5

The summer sun smiled brightly on the vast land, unaffected by the insignificant humans moving about the day to make ends meet. A lone figure sat hunched on a stone bench. His dark, greenish hair curtained his profile. He was entranced by an object that he did not hear the crunching of leaves caused by heavy boots.

"That was my favourite book as a child." Belle's silent approach jolted the king from his musings.

Taking a seat next to him, Belle couldn't help but grin when the king scooted away.

"Thank you for today," Belle started. The king looked at her with confusion. "You lifted the restriction. Thank you for that." His shoulders were tensed and but he gave her a tight smile nonetheless. If she squinted hard enough, she could see the deep red tinged that coloured his cheeks. This was how their conversation always started: awkward, tentative, and stilted. Taking pity on him, she pointed at the book and told him of its contents. She told him her favourite tales and their characters, talking with gusto at the climax of each story. Slowly but surely, the man opened up to her.

"You and my son have the same taste in adventures, it seems. I have lost count on the number of times the healer had to treat him after he acted out parts of the escapades," the king said with a hint of warmth in his voice. He opened the book and flipped to a tale of a nutcracker prince. It was his child's favourite. She could hear the smile in his voice when he told her this, his hair blocking her view of him. They went into a comfortable discussion about fairy tales and his son—talking in hushed tones as if they were sharing precious secrets of their hearts.

There was no mistaking the wistful look on Rumpelstiltskin's whenever he spoke of his son. An idea came to Belle and she bit her lower lip before forming it into words. "Would it be too presumptuous to suggest we read your son a story?"

At the king's scowl she quickly added, "It was once said on the fifteenth of every month, spirits roam the land of the living. Whether there is a grain of truth, I do not know. What I do know is you never give up on a chance. That way Baelfire knows you still remember him... still loves him. Maybe... just maybe it'll help you to heal too." The storyteller watched as the king's eyes took on a faraway look. When he turned his sights back on her, she was taken aback by the raw emotions in his eyes. It wasn't until the king told her to breathe that she noticed she was holding her breath. No one could convince her that the soft tug at the corner of his lips was not a smile. She refused to believe it was anything but that.

x

Ever since Belle suggested reading to his son, the king often found himself standing outside her door, hand raised and ready to knock. He wanted her there with him—to spin her stories of course since she was the better storyteller. Not because he liked their exchanges or the fact that her presence soothed him. His courage always faltered as soon as he convinced himself of his intentions. This was why he always found himself alone at his son's grave on the fifteenth of every month.

Today, the king once again stood in front of an all too familiar door. He was beginning to hate that door. As he was about to walk away a muffled voice piped up, "You should stop this nonsense." His body thrummed in response. He wondered briefly on this feeling of... anticipation? Nervousness? Waving the foreign emotions away he collected himself before opening the door. An ethereal loveliness greeted him, temporarily dismantled his mask. He babbled nonsense about being as healthy as a spring chicken when she asked of his wellbeing. When her azure orbs light up with merriment, his thought his heart might burst at her radiance. He knew in that moment he might be in deeper trouble than he initially thought.

x

Large pine trees hid the place from view. In the middle of the clearing was a mighty oak tree, sheltering a lone grave. The grave was not what the storyteller expected. Its modesty surprised her. A soft bed of grass covered the raised earth and wild flowers grew sparsely around it. A marble tombstone with carved golden letters was the only luxurious thing within the vicinity. On it, she noticed the rough engravings (she suspected it was the king's handiwork):

_You dance inside my chest,_

_Where no one sees you._

_Rest now, Baelfire, my Little Truth_

Belle approached the grave and kneeled at its side. Her hands traced the words.

"My little boy loved it here."

The storyteller raised her head and saw the king kneeling on the opposite side.

"He had many adventures on that tree. Each one succeeded in greying my hair," he recalled softly. Soon she found herself listening to his recollection of his son's escapades. The underlying sadness in his words was ever-present beneath the jovial front. When he found himself lost for words, she gestured to the book in his hands.

Sitting where she kneeled she began reading the story of a little tin soldier, ignoring the tingles when his hand brushed hers.

* * *

><p>A letter lay open on a mahogany table. The figure in the chair stared at it with contempt. Another letter, another pardon. There had been one too many begging for leniency on their late tributes. He had been negligent in his ruling and the rulers are taking advantage of it. The Dark One's dagger had been cheapened to a mere letter opener, but after a constant flow of such letters, he thought it was time to unleash the creature upon them.<p>

Twirling the dagger in his hand, he wondered idly on the best punishment for their insolence. Selling their loved ones into slavery would be a fitting sentence. Decided, Rumpelstiltskin summoned the Dark One. The command was at the tip of his tongue when the storyteller barged in with a dazzling smile. The smile was short-lived, however. It vanished instantaneously when she noticed the creature's presence. The king could not help the twinge of disappointment at the loss. Dismissing the being to relay the threat of wealth, the king invited the storyteller to a seat. The couple failed to notice the slight burn in the dark carpet where the Dark One stood.

"You called, Your Majesty?" Belle asked once the ominous presence left the room.

"Yes. I have something that might be of interest to you." Rumpelstiltskin took out what appeared to be stacks of paper. As Belle edged closer to his desk and read the heading, the smile once again formed on her lips. She excitedly flipped through them as she greedily took in the words. It was a draft of a written law on education, something they once conversed in passing.


End file.
